Experimenting With Creative Writing
The problem with a slow dance is,
It’s flawless – besides when it’s not.
Time heals, forgiveness, forgot.
The dilemma with a trance is,
Giving out infinite chances.
March down a disappointing track,
Waiting for your disguise to crack.
Each final straw, each iceberg’s tip,
Expectations finally slip,
And now there is no waltzing back.
Image credit: pixabay.com
In response to Ronovan Writes’ Décima Challenge found here
It matters not whether I frown,
Nor lower my head in shame.
For I will always be the clown,
In your wicked game.
Even when I tread with stealth,
And deny all that you claim,
I will always be myself,
When you put me in the frame.
You may not devise my fate,
No matter how precise your aim.
I will rise above your hate.
With pride, I state my name.
Image credit: pixabay.com
In response to dVerse’s Clowning Around Prompt found here
Also loosely inspired by Emeli Sandé’s Clown.
There is no need to sever the atmosphere,
Which lingers like smog, between you.
Instead, swallow the bitter taste of fury,
Or let it lie stagnant in your heart, festering.
It will only grow tough, unshakable layers,
As it will not disintegrate.
Is anything better left unsaid?
Why don’t you put these fumes to bed?
You weren’t the first. Perhaps if you were, it wouldn’t have cut me so deep. I wouldn’t have become so numb. I may have even found forgiveness.
So unexpectedly, you cut me out of your life, as though I was a jagged edge on a piece of paper. Something so easily discarded without a second thought.
For a while, I wondered, perhaps I did something wrong? I tried to make amends, but I meant so little to you that I wasn’t even worthy of a response. It dawned on me that I held no value in your eyes.
So when you walked back into my life, did you really expect me to have left that space inside my heart all warm, cosy, and welcoming?
I have grieved, I have found acceptance, and to save myself, I have lost my respect for you.
You weren’t the first.
You won’t be the last.
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